|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 94
A deep growl welcomed them as the maid opened the sitting-room door and
switched on the light as the ladies entered. Wellington lay near the
balcony window, head on paws, with the book his mistress had given him
between his teeth. He rose slowly, very slowly, eyes red, ruff
bristling round the spiked collar, growling menacingly.
"My dear," said the duchess quietly, "just stand still. Damaris has
gone away. He is always like this when she has left him. Hobson, go
and see if you can find Jane Coop. I hope to goodness you don't."
She walked across the room and passed close to the dog, who turned his
head and, growling savagely, watched her as she moved. Then she came
back and sat down quite near him, and leaning down arranged the buckle
on her shoe, whilst Jill stood perfectly still, filled with admiration
for the old woman, who was not acting out of bravado but simply
tackling the situation in the only possible way.
Once let a bulldog on guard know that you do not want to take away or
touch his carefully-guarded possessions, and that you are not in the
least bit afraid of him, and all will be well.
"Come over here, Jill."
Jill, who had removed her veil and satin mantle, crossed the room and
sat down on a stool at the elder woman's feet. She took the wrinkled
little old hand and patted it; then they sat still and silent, hand in
hand, waiting for the maids' return.
What was there for these women to make such a fuss about? Cannot a
girl be allowed to sit out perhaps a dance, or a whole cotillon even,
without the world coming to an end?
What made them all three fret, and fuss, and fear?
The great love they had one for the other, perhaps, for love has been
known to pierce the mental fog we each one of us weave about ourselves
and so allow us to help one another, sometimes even at a great distance.
Maria Hobson knocked and opened Jane Coop's door, who rose and came
quickly towards her; and as her grace's maid involuntarily glanced
round the room, old Nannie peered over her shoulder with the hope of
seeing her young mistress in the corridor.
"Isn't she here?"
"My young lady? No; she's dancing." She paused, and put out her hand.
"Isn't she dancing? Isn't she?"
Why did Jane Coop fear as the others feared, and why did her bonny face
go suddenly white?
Because she, too, was one of the happy, limited throng who know what
real love is.
"My mistress would like to speak to you, Miss Coop."
"What's wrong? Maria Hobson, tell me what's wrong."
Hobson allowed the unlicensed use of her Christian name to pass
unnoticed; she closed the door behind her and spoke gently, as she took
the other woman's hand and shook it, which was her somewhat masculine
way of showing sympathy.
"I don't know; none of us know that anything _is_ wrong. As Mike
O'Rafferty used to say. 'We may be afther barking in the wrong
back-yard,' but I had a dream, Jane Coop. Sit you down whilst I'm
telling it you."
They sat on the sofa, hand in hand, strangely like their mistresses as
they sat in the sitting-room near the suspicious bulldog.
At the end of the story of the dream, Jane Coop rose.
"Thank you, Miss Hobson. I thought my young mistress was dancing. I
was hoping she was forgetting a bit, with the music and young folk.
There's one thing, I shall know where she has gone to. My dearie
wouldn't break her word. Come along." She opened the door and turned
and spoke over her shoulder.
"Drat men!" she said briefly and emphatically.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|